


A Hearth for Christmas

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve; Bodie is injured and trapped.  His only hope is Doyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hearth for Christmas

It was cold—one of the coldest December nights Doyle could remember.  He leaned his head against the cool glass, and watched people hurrying into the deepening night.  He restrained himself from breaking the window.  Stay cool, Bodie had once told him.  As cold as death.  As dead as Bodie might be.  He closed his eyes.

” _Car park.  F....  —Decker.  Automatics...grenades...fucking amat....  Need back—”_   And that was all they had to go on.  Concrete could play havoc with R/T signals, but the desperation had been clear in Bodie's voice.  Decker was one of Bodie's grasses—an ex-mercenary in the arms business.  "Yeah, like Marty," Bodie had said of him.  "Less choosy about customers.  He has a lot of contacts, but he's careless."  Decker had rung Bodie earlier in the day, saying he had information.  And Bodie had gone, with nothing but a glance at Doyle.  Doyle had kept his own face impassive, as he had for the past week or more—ever since Bodie had said no.

oooOOOOooo

Bodie stared at the waning light, the ever-darkening patch of sky through the vent.  They'd never find him in the dark—not even Doyle.  He was on his own, and he'd left it too late to move himself.  Which did you choose?  A quick but sure death, or a slow one—hanging on to a last glimmer of hope?  Sammy had chosen the quick.  With light and hope fading, Bodie wondered at his own choice.  He wanted to grasp hold of the light, and hold it close, but it would slip through his fingers, as surely as Doyle had done.

Anything worth having was impossible to hold—light, love, even life itself.  He had used part of his shirt to bind the wound in his arm, but he had been unable to stop the blood loss completely.  The fall had damaged his shoulder, as well as his ankle.  When he'd realised Vicars and his men had to have gone, he'd used his last strength to wedge his holster in the vent, hoping it would be seen from the other roof.  It had been a slim hope in the face of reality.  Long ago, he'd learnt the rarity of miracles.  He was a realist.

oooOOOOooo

They had searched Decker's flat, alerted the Met, contacted other grasses, but no one knew anything.  Doyle had had a conversation with Martel, who had admitted he'd been contacted by a third party on behalf of a group wanting that sort of firepower.  "I don't deal with amateurs," he'd said.  The third party had been found dead in his flat—killed by a knife wound to his neck.  There had been little of use found in his flat, except an address book.  Anson was still following up on the man's associates, while Doyle had been recalled to HQ.

He needed to be out on the streets searching, even if it would take a miracle to find the right car park.  If it had ended at the car park, and not elsewhere.  There had been no reports of a disturbance in a car park, but a multi-storey might offer concealment, and might interfere with the R/T.  "Fucking hell, Bodie."  He murmured the words into the glass.  “ _Where_?”  He ignored the most logical reason for Bodie's continued silence.

Doyle pushed away from the window.  There had to be something else he could do.  Car park. F....  Fulham? Forest Hill? Finchley?  Or fuck, for that matter.  Still, he could check the multi-storey car parks—it would be better than sitting here.  The Met was on that, but he knew their priorities, and he knew what to look for.  Bodie might have left a sign.  "You know the man, Doyle," Cowley had said.  He'd wanted Doyle at HQ, ready to respond as soon as they had any word. 

_You know the man._

He had thought he had.

oooOOOOooo

_”Christmas Eve. We're working on sodding Christmas Eve."  Bodie gripped the steering wheel._

_He knew Doyle looked over at him, but he refused to meet his gaze.  "Oh, the SAS take Christmas Eve off, is that it?"_

_He couldn't even complain to the touchy sod.  What kind of partnership could they possibly have?  "And you've worked every one for the last five years, right?"_

_"I've worked my share."_

_"Dutiful Doyle."_

_"I take my job seriously."_

_"Do you honestly think you make a difference?"_

_Doyle looked away.  "Sometimes."  His tone was stubborn._

_"You're an idealist, a dreamer."_

_"It's better to be a realist, like you?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"I'd rather have hope."_

_"Like a kid on Christmas morning, expecting a bloody miracle."_

_"What better time?"_

_He didn't push it, what was the point?  Doyle would burn out soon enough, and he'd have another partner.  They had nothing in common, except a desire to show each other up.  He'd thought at first it might work between them.  Doyle was good on the job, no question.  But there was no rapport between them, they were too different.  Doyle reserved his passions for the job, and to the world he presented a cool facade.  Bodie found he could goad Doyle to anger, but little else penetrated.  He could read nothing in Doyle's eyes—it was as if they looked right through him.  He shifted in his seat, angry that it should matter to him at all.  Do the job.  They functioned well enough as a team, what did it matter what Doyle thought of him?  And anyway, Doyle wouldn't last._

_"Alpha to four-five."_

_Doyle picked up the mike.  "Four-five."_

_"Anything?"_

_"Nothing.  No sign of Delaney."_

_"Right.  Harris says the same.  You and three-seven, go in and get Miss Porter. Gently!"_

_"Yes, sir. Four-five out."  He replaced the mike.  "You heard the man."_

_"Gently."_

_"That means no killing."_

_Bodie rolled his eyes and nodded.  "Thank you."  They left the car and walked towards the Porter house.  If the reports were true, she was the brains as well as the finances behind Delaney's rampage of terror.  "I'll go round the back."_

_"What for?  It's a pick-up, not a raid, and Harris is back there."  Doyle pulled out his R/T.  "Harris, we're picking Porter up.  Be ready, just in case."  He received Harris' response and put away the R/T.  "Satisfied?"_

_"If Harris was any good, yeah."_

_"Look, just because he wasn't with the bloody SAS—“_

_"Leave it out, Doyle.  We're here."_

_Doyle gave him a look, but rapped on the door, as he pulled out his ID.  Bodie rested his hand on his gun.  The door opened._

_"What do you—“_

_"CI5, Miss Porter.  I'm Doyle, that's Bodie.  Mr Cowley wants to see you."_

_Porter was just under Doyle's height, with greying blonde hair, and a thin face.  "I don't have—“_

_"Yes, you do."  Doyle gripped her arm.  "This way."_

_"We should check the house."  Bodie pulled his gun out._

_Doyle grimaced.  “Bodie—“_

_"By the book, Doyle."_

_Doyle narrowed his eyes, but he pulled out his R/T.  "Harris.  Come here."  He put the R/T away.  "It's him you're doubting."_

_Bodie let out a small smile.  "Playing by the rules."  He knew by Doyle's expression that he saw right through him._

_"You can't go in my house."  Porter struggled within Doyle's grip._

_"The door's open."  Bodie made sure of it with his foot._

_"You stay out!"_

_"Are you hiding something, Miss Porter?"  Doyle spoke as Bodie eased his way inside the door._

_"No, but—“_

_"Bodie, wait for— Harris!  Take her."_

_Bodie was in a hallway, a stairway to his left, a partially open door to his right.  Light streamed out from the room behind the door.  He moved towards it, gun drawn, then shoved the door hard while stepping quickly into the room.  No one was there, and his eyes took in the chair in front of an electric fire, a half-empty glass on the table next to it.  He stepped back into the hallway, and glanced up as Doyle entered the house.  “No—“_

_"Bodie!"_

_He dove to the floor and rolled at Doyle's roar, and he heard two shots overlap each other.  He raised his head to find Doyle crouched in the doorway, arms outstretched, gun trained on the stairs.  Bodie scrambled to his feet, pressed against the stair wall.  His heart was hammering, and he glanced at the bullet hole in the door frame to the living room.  He eased forward around the stairway, keeping out of Doyle's line of fire.  There was a man sprawled at the top of the stair, a gun on the step below his hand. Bodie walked up the stairs, already certain of what he'd find.  He crouched by the body._

_"Delaney."  He looked down at Doyle.  "Thanks, mate."  Doyle nodded, his eyes wide, and fixed on Bodie.  He lowered his gun._

_"What the hell?"  Harris came through the doorway, Miss Porter in tow._

_"Stay put," Doyle said to Harris, and he headed down the hallway._

_Bodie stood up and quickly finished a recce of the two rooms upstairs.  He found no one.  He walked down the stairs and saw Doyle returning from checking the rest of the ground floor._

_"Clear."  Doyle looked at Bodie._

_"The same."_

_Doyle turned on Harris.  "That's Delaney."  He jerked his thumb towards the stairs.  "How'd he get in?"_

_"I don't know! Why are you—“_

_"Did you leave your post?"_

_"No!"  But Harris' gaze shifted away from Doyle.  "Okay, I took a l—“_

_Doyle hit Harris across the jaw.  Harris fell against the wall.   Doyle grabbed Miss Porter, and started out of the house.  "Bodie!"_

_"Coming."  He walked the rest of the way down the stairs and eyed the recovering Harris._

_"What'd he do that for?"  Harris rubbed a hand across his jaw._

_He remembered the look in Doyle's eyes, and there had been more than anger in Doyle's shout.  He smiled as he patted Harris on the cheek.  "He's my partner.  Keep an eye on the body."  He followed Doyle out of the house._

_Doyle was struggling with Porter.  "You killed him."  Her voice was shrill.  "You murdering bastard!"  She kicked him, and Doyle lost his grip on her._

_Bodie intercepted her flight.  "Not so fast, my lovely."  He shook her.  "And don't kick me or I'll knock you unconscious."_

_"You wouldn't dare!"_

_"He would."  Doyle walked up to them.  "He takes his job very seriously, don't you, Bodie?"_

_"I do."  He took a firmer grip on Miss Porter's arm, while Doyle grabbed her other arm.  He looked across at Doyle.  "Gently, eh?"_

_"Gently does it."  Doyle grinned, his whole face transformed. "We'll give Cowley a Christmas pressie.”_

And lying on the cold cement, in the dark of another Christmas Eve, Bodie felt again the warmth that had infused him all those years ago.  "Hurry, Ray."  He whispered the words.

oooOOOOooo

"Doyle."

He turned at Cowley's voice, already moving towards the door.  "Where?"

Cowley walked with him down the hallway.  "Two bodies were found in a wheelie bin in Fulham—near a multi-storey car park."

"IDs?"  He kept his voice steady.

"None.  We'll take my car." 

Doyle nodded; his face felt stiff.  He reached for something to say, but there was nothing, not even the humour that was their hallmark.  There were bodies in a wheelie bin in Fulham, on Christmas Eve.

Doyle drove while Cowley sat quietly beside him.  He was grateful for the distraction of traffic, and forced himself to patience with the slowness of rush hour congestion.  He'd once told Bodie he'd joined the police to learn discipline, control the flashing anger within him.  He'd learnt to funnel his anger into accepted areas of release—fighting injustice, persevering on a case, running until he was near collapse.  It was only with Bodie he'd let his control slip now and again, knowing that Bodie would pull him back, if need be; knowing Bodie could take it.  And in bed, in bed with...  _Yeah, Ray, come on.  Let me see it all, that's right.  Everything you've got._   Doyle clenched his jaw, and gripped the steering wheel until his hands hurt.

It wasn't difficult to find the alley behind the restaurant where the bodies had been found.  Police cars with lights still flashing blocked off the area.  They were led to the scene by a Detective Inspector who explained how an employee of the restaurant had found the bodies.  Doyle let the words wash over him, taking them in for future reference, but concentrating on the bin. 

"Are either of these your man, Mr Cowley?"  The DI himself lifted the bin lid.

"No.  Doyle?"

"That's Decker, Bodie's contact.  I don't know the other one."  His voice didn't show the combination of relief and worry that roiled through him.  He glanced at the adjacent car park.  "Have you searched the car park?"

"Yes.  We found blood and bullet casings, but—“

"My men will be going over the scene.  Doyle—“

Doyle nodded at Cowley's gesture and turned for the car park.  Malone and his crew had arrived on the scene, and Doyle signalled them to follow him.  Blood and bullet casings in the car park—it fitted with Bodie's last transmission.  Whoever it was had had time to put Decker's body in the bin—and one of their own.  Bodie's work?  Where the hell was he?  Doyle's stomach was a tight knot.

"It's going to take time."  Malone sounded grim as he assessed the multi-storey car park.

"We don't have any."  Bodie was alive until he saw the body. 

_Dreamer._

_Shut up, Bodie._

"So what else is new?"  Malone sighed.

They found the scene and a constable who was standing guard beside it.  "That's a lot of blood."

Malone lifted his eyes to Doyle's.  "Someone bled out here."

"There's a second patch—less blood—over there."  The constable pointed it out to them.  Malone walked over to the second spot.

Doyle looked around.  They were on the second level of the car park.  Two dead, two scenes.  Had the others chased Bodie?  The obvious answer was the closest stairwell.  Doyle walked over to it, but could find nothing on the landing or stairs to indicate that Bodie, or anyone, had gone that way.  He returned to the scene.  What if Bodie had gone for cover amongst the cars?  He might even have wanted to draw their fire—call attention to the car park. 

There were more cars parked away from the rather secluded corner where Decker had died.  Doyle examined them as he walked, knowing exactly what to look for—and he found it.  "Oi!" He waved to Malone, who hurried over.

"Yes."  Malone fingered the mark on the side of a Volvo.  "It could be."  He searched the ground.  "Ah."  He held up a bullet for Doyle to see.  "Right calibre for Bodie."

"Or the villains."  Doyle continued walking to a second stairwell, and Malone followed.  Doyle bent to touch a dark patch on the wall by the door.  He looked at his finger:  blood.

"He was hit."  Malone's voice was soft.

"Someone was."  He entered the stairwell, looked down the stairs, and then up.  If he was on the run, injured, Bodie would go for higher ground.  Doyle headed up the stairs to the roof.  He pushed open the security door.  The roof was flat concrete, with a brick parapet.  An enclosed structure housed the electrical utilities for the building, situated towards the middle of the roof.  He walked over to it, and tested the padlocked door.  It was secure.  Doyle looked around.  The view was desolate, filled with similar, empty roofs, as empty as he felt inside.  The wind blew cold and strong against his face, and he felt the occasional sting of an ice particle.  There was nothing for him here.

oooOOOOooo

_”It’s not right, you know."_

_"What's not right?" Bodie glanced at Doyle, who was strolling by his side with a frown on his face._

_"This."  Doyle gestured at the night that surrounded them.  "It's Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake.  And it's warm."_

_"Lots of places are warm at Christmas.  Australia.  Africa."   Clouds chased each other across the moon as they walked towards Doyle's flat._

_"This is not bloody Africa."_

_Thank God for that.  It was England with its damp, and its brick, and its pubs filled with Christmas cheer. And Doyle by his side._

_"And if I have to listen, even one more time, to bloody Noddy Holder—“_

_Bodie wrapped an arm around him, and launched into the tune: "Are you hanging up a stocking on your wall— Oof!  Philistine."_

_"Serves you right."  Doyle was grinning now.  "Well, at least we're not on—“_

_"Shh. Don't say it."  Bodie put his hand over Doyle's mouth._

_"Gerroff."  Doyle pulled away from him.  "Superstitious."_

_"Experience."_

_"How many times have we been—“_

_"Every single one."  Bodie draped his arm across Doyle's shoulders again, and moved them along.  "So don't tempt fate.  You promised me Christmas dinner."_

_"Yeah."  Doyle stopped suddenly.  "Ah, about that...."_

_"Are you reneging on me, you little bugger?"  It took effort to give his voice the right light touch.  Claire must have come up to scratch, after all._

_"No. Well, just the turkey part."  Doyle looked at him sidelong._

_"No turkey?"  He hid his relief in menace._

_Doyle spread his hands, and backed away.  "We were on duty, remember?"_

_"Doyle."_

_"It's all right, though, we'll have, uh, sprouts.  Carrots."  He snapped his fingers.  "Ah!  I think I could throw together a nut roast—“  Doyle took off as Bodie pounced.  They raced down the street, cutting around parked cars, leaping puddles and small walls, Doyle managing to keep just out of Bodie's reach.  He heard the sound of Doyle's laugh—a bit breathless—and Bodie grinned.  There was little traffic; they had taken their time walking from Doyle's local.  Most people were settled in with their families, the people they chose to spend Christmas with._

_Doyle's building was just ahead.  Bodie put on an extra burst of speed and hooked a hand into the collar of Doyle's jacket._

_“Bo—“ Doyle's voice was cut off as Bodie caught him, and pushed him against the stone wall of the building.  He pressed close, feeling Doyle warm against him.  Doyle laughed again. "Okay.  All right."  He was breathing hard._

_"Not nut roast, Doyle."_

_"You're sure?"_

_"Positive."_

_"Ah, well.  I might have some sausages."_

_"That's better."_

_"And Christmas cake."_

_"Brandy butter?"_

_"Of course."_

_"There's no 'of course' with you."  Bodie stared at Doyle, his heart beating fast.  "When should I come over?"_

_Doyle tilted his head, his eyes shifting colour in the lamplight.  "Why not stay?"_

_It felt like something pierced him, right in the breastbone.  "Not a good idea."_

_Doyle breathed in and out.  Bodie felt it on his cheek.  "Why?"_

_And the piercing feeling twisted, arcing down to his groin.  He put a hand on either side of Doyle's face.  "Ray."  He whispered the name, and felt the barest nod.  He leaned in and placed his lips against Doyle's.  The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, like a first step onto freshly fallen snow.  Doyle's arms closed around him, and the kiss deepened into passion—all the heady heat of him given in to Bodie's care.  He groaned and his tongue slid into Doyle's mouth as he sought to melt into him, with him._

_Eventually, Doyle pulled his mouth away, and Bodie buried his face in Doyle's neck, listened to their short breaths, afraid to look at him.  All gone, it could all be gone in an instant of misjudgement.  All the passion, all the warmth that filled Doyle, and was so rarely shared with anyone.  He didn't want to be out in the cold again._

_"Bodie."_

_He swallowed, steeled himself, and lifted his head._

_Doyle met his gaze, and his eyes were alight.  "Let's go inside."  Doyle's hand slid down his arm, to his hand.  Bodie backed a step, setting Doyle free.  Doyle let his hand go, gestured with his head, and moved towards the building's entrance._

_Bodie followed, and when Doyle looked back at him with something close to confusion edging into his expression, Bodie reached out and put a hand on his cheek.  "Such a bloody dangerous thing—hope.”_

_Doyle smiled.  "Good thing you've got a partner, then.”_

A partner to watch his back; a partner to protect, above all others.  Bodie curled into himself, cradling his arm, feeling the chill to his bones. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Ray."

oooOOOOooo

Doyle returned to the second level of the car park.  Cowley had arrived on the scene and was conferring with Malone.  Doyle headed towards them, and Cowley met him halfway.

"That lead you and Anson found paid off."

"Casey?"

"Aye.  Anson followed him to a pub in Elephant and Castle.  The man he met showed him a Glock."  Cowley led them to the stairs as he spoke.

"And?"

"Anson followed them to a run-down flat, called for backup and moved in on them.  One was killed, another is on his way to St Thomas's, Anson has Casey and the one he followed—along with a car-load of weapons.  They thought to rob a building society.  Amateurs—far too much firepower that they didn't know how to use, but were happy to try.

"Bodie?"

"No sign of him."  They exited at the ground level and walked onto the pavement.  "But we—“  Cowley's R/T bleeped.  "Cowley."

"Sir."  It was Anson's voice.  "Perkins says they lost Bodie at the car park."

Cowley looked at Doyle, but replied to Anson.  “At—“

"He gave them the slip—or possibly fell."

Doyle's eyes went to the roof of the car park.  He turned and ran back to the stairs.  The stairwell he and Cowley had used had a sign stating no roof access.  He exited on the second level and raced to the stairwell he'd used before.  There was still nothing on the roof to give him a clue.  He walked around the perimeter.  There was a fire escape, ending in the alley with the wheelie bin.  If Bodie had made it there, the gang would have found him—or someone would have.  Doyle eyed the roofs that surrounded the car park, but they were too far away.  He stopped, and leaned against the parapet.  "Where are you, Bodie?  _Where_?" He looked up into the night, the stars obscured by clouds. 

Christmas Eve.  It was the time for bloody miracles, if ever there was one.  Bodie was out there, somewhere, injured, unable to call in.  He wasn't dead.  He couldn't be dead.  Doyle closed his eyes, his breath trapped in his lungs.  _Face reality, mate_.  No.  Not dead.  Anything was better than that, anything.  _We’re partners, Doyle, not lovers._

"Doyle."  His hands bit into the concrete of the parapet, and he wouldn't turn to face Cowley until his face was under control.  He stared across at the roof below him.  It, too, had only an electrical shed to mar its empty expanse.  But it was cover.  He finally turned his head as Cowley walked up to him, and then looked again at the lower roof.

"It's twenty feet, lad.  Perhaps more."

"But much of it downward.  Possible for a trained Para."

"Or a desperate man?"  Cowley's eyes narrowed as he looked across at the roof.

"Seeking a place to hide."  Doyle looked at him, seeing the doubt.  It didn't matter.  He left Cowley on the roof.

oooOOOOooo

_”You want us to go away for Christmas?"_

_"We've got two days off.  It'd be nice to get out of town."  Doyle pushed open the door, and led them into the car park._

_"We're on call."_

_"No we're not—Cowley just said, when I handed him my report."_

_Damn him. "You'd be a fool to trust that—you know how he is.  We'll get called in anyway."_

_"Another good reason to get out of town."_

_"I've already got plans."  It felt like his stomach had turned to rock._

_Doyle glanced at him, his eyebrows raised.  "Have you?"_

_"Yeah."  They arrived at Doyle's car, and Bodie walked around to the passenger side._

_"First I've heard of it."_

_"Yeah, well."  Bodie opened the door and slid into the seat.  "I don't tell you everything, do I?"_

_"Apparently not."  Doyle started the car.  His face was expressionless now.  Bodie looked away.  The silence seemed heavy._

_Doyle shrugged.  "Thought it would nice, you know.  Get away—“_

_"What, like a couple?"  He had to play this right.  He wasn't giving up everything.  He kept his voice light.  "We're partners, not lovers, Doyle.  What would they think, eh?  Cosy cottage—“_

_"Who said anything about a cottage?  Was thinking a pub, mate."  It was only because he was listening for it that he heard the forced note in Doyle's voice._

_"Ah, that kind of holiday."_

_"Yeah.  Of course."  Doyle didn't look at him.  Bodie tightened his right hand into a fist, then relaxed it._

_"Wish I could, mate."_

_"Another time."  Doyle slowed to approach a T-junction.  "Where am I taking you?"_

_He knew what he should say, but he couldn't.  "Up to you."  It took everything he had to return Doyle's look as if nothing had changed._

_After a moment, Doyle nodded once, and looked again at the traffic.  "Fair enough."  His voice was low.  He took the turning for his flat._

The concrete was cold, sapping the life from him as surely as the blood loss.  His haven might be his death.  But that was the way of the world—protection for a price.  Cowley had made it clear.  _Doyle is ambitious, Bodie, and I've a mind to aid that ambition. Would you stand in his way?_ He'd made his bargain, and the light in Doyle's eyes had dimmed at his words.  Yet there had still been warmth for him, and he'd clung to that as he now clung to hope in the quiet stillness of a deadly night.  Doyle had taken him home.  It was as much as they were allowed in their chosen lives, given who they were.  He had thought it would be enough, until he'd seen a spark of stubborn hope in an expressionless face.  Was a quick but sure death better than a slow one, watching hope fade?  He was no longer certain—for himself, or Ray.  And so he'd made his final choice.

oooOOOOooo

Doyle broke into the building, not caring that he set off an alarm, and found a route to the roof.  He knew the odds, understood the doubts that Cowley hadn't expressed.  Bodie had had an R/T; there was nothing to block the signal on that roof.  Doyle couldn't have made that jump between roofs, and if Bodie was injured, could he?  Yet he was certain Bodie would go for height and cover.  If he was injured, helpless, it was up to Doyle to find him.  _Up to you._   Sometimes bloody determination was all he had.

There was a single light on the roof, and in its light he saw the lock to the electrical shed was open.  Doyle's heartbeat slammed in his throat.  _Christ, please...._ There was a dark shape on the floor, and then Doyle was on his knees and feeling for Bodie's pulse.  There it was, slow but steady—proof of life.  He took his coat off, wrapped it around Bodie, and flicked on the R/T.  "He's here. Get an ambulance."

"Ray."  Bodie's voice was weak.  Doyle couldn't see if his eyes were open or not.

"You stupid twat.  Look at the state of you."  He leaned over Bodie, his hand cradling Bodie's neck and jaw.  Bodie's skin was cold.

"Cowley."

"He's here.  In the car park."   He felt Bodie shift.  "Don't move."

"Warned...us." 

And suddenly, sickeningly, everything began to make sense.  He felt an anger stir inside, mingling with desperation.

"You...needed...know."  The last word was little more than an exhalation, but Doyle understood it. 

"Bodie."  He put his other hand on Bodie's head.  "You are not going to die on me, you bastard."  He leaned closer and kissed him.  "Do you hear me?  Bodie?  I'll burn every fucking bridge before I give you up.  You're not dying here.  Not here.  Not at Christmas.  Not without me.  Dammit."  He reached under the jacket, found Bodie's wrist, and held it, willing his warmth, his certainty into Bodie.  "I'm not letting go.  I'm not giving up."

There was no response from Bodie, no sound to break the silence—not even a siren.  But there was warmth and life still in Bodie's wrist.  He counted each pulse until the police and ambulance arrived.

oooOOOOooo

He knew it was Doyle's touch before he opened his eyes; knew he'd find him, as surely as he'd found him on that first Christmas morning.  But that easy wakening was no longer his—wariness had replaced wonder.  Bodie opened his eyes.  He was in hospital, a curtain was drawn around his bed, and Doyle was in a chair beside him, his head on Bodie's thigh, his hand on Bodie's wrist.  Bodie realised he was warm, and alive, and for a moment he let himself believe in miracles. But then he heard footsteps in the ward, and he twitched his thigh to wake Doyle.

Doyle raised his head, blinked, then looked at Bodie—and his smile took Bodie's breath away.  "About time you woke up."

The curtain moved, and a nurse slipped in.  "Happy Christmas.  Are you awake then, Mr Bodie?"

He nodded, and tried to clear his throat, acutely aware that Doyle hadn't moved his hand.

"Here."  She gave him water to drink, holding the cup for him.  He rolled an eye towards Doyle.

"Get used to it," Doyle said. 

Bodie managed a smile for the nurse.  "Thank you."

She checked his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature.  "The doctor will be in later.  Press the button if there's anything you need."  For the first time, she glanced at Doyle, but there was no change in her expression—as if Doyle was simply an appendage, expected to be there.  She left them, and shut the curtain behind her.

"Doyle, wha—?”

"You have a hole in your arm, a broken ankle, and, I suspect by the bruising, a sore shoulder.  Scuppered your Christmas plans, didn't you?"

Bodie looked down.

"Not that you had any Christmas plans.  I hope sausages will still do you.  You smashed your R/T when you landed, by the way.  Careless of you."

"Cheap equipment," Bodie managed to say.

"Anson caught the villains.  One dead, one worse off than you, one in the nick.  Amateurs."

He frowned.  "I killed one, didn't I?"

"Dumped in a wheelie bin by his mates."

"Decker?"

"Dead.  Same wheelie bin."

Bodie nodded.  He remembered Decker going down.  His hand was warm under Doyle's touch—nearly burning.  "Did you get my holster?"

"Yeah.  You told me about Cowley."

Bodie stared at him.  He remembered Doyle's hands on his face. He'd said—

"So you decided to run, did you?"  Doyle seemed only mildly interested.

“I—“

"Always the bloody realist.  That's the real reason you went to see Decker.  Wasn't it?"  Doyle's voice turned hard on the question.

"Ray."  Bodie closed his eyes for a moment.

"I would have played by your rules."  Doyle's tone was fierce.

"No.  You wouldn't have."  And he found he could meet Doyle's eyes.  "Bloody dreamer."

"And stubborn with it."  Doyle's hand tightened on Bodie's wrist.  "There's no need to go.  Cowley knows."

"He knew before."

"No.  He knows our terms.  _Our_ terms."

Slowly, he shook his head.  "You can’t—“  But the treacherous, dangerous emotion Doyle had taught him was rising through his chest.

"You can turn me down, Bodie, or you can stay.  But no half-measures."

"You take the job seriously."

"It's you I want."  Doyle stared at him.  "It's real, isn't it?"

He turned his arm in Doyle's grip.  "Of course it's real.  Even Cowley knows that."  He pulled against Doyle's hold.  "Help me up."

"Gently does it, you fool."  Doyle eased him into something closer to a sitting position.

He reached his good hand to Doyle's face.  "You never stop hoping, do you?"

Doyle swallowed.  "Not as long as you're there to watch my back."

"And you mine.  I'm sorry."

"You stayed alive.  You knew I'd come."

"I hoped."

Doyle smiled, and he put his hand over Bodie's.  "You see?  There are bloody Christmas miracles."

END

_December 2008_

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Discoveredinalj Christmas challenge, December 2008


End file.
